Raise Me to Your Lips
by Zsra187
Summary: When she does sleep, she does not find peace, even then.


**Raise Me to Your Lips**

The oppressive darkness of the Eyrie overwhelms her when she lies underneath her covers at night. It bears down upon her, chokes her, smothers her, until she can no longer sleep, but wakes, skin flushed and gasping.

She could never love it here. She misses her old room back at Winterfell, misses those nights when her sister would slip through the door and clamber into her bed to warm her cold feet on Sansa's legs. Now she only has Sweetrobin, who climbs into bed with her and tries to suckle from her breasts. At times he still cries for his mother. On some nights, Alayne cries with him for her own.

When she does sleep, she does not find peace, even then. Her dreams are hazy and full of green fire, of evil, stunted monsters that crawl through the darkness and a golden haired boy who chokes, clawing at his throat and purple face. She dreams of her father, his head impaled on a spike and of her mother, weeping tears of blood as she cradles her eldest son's lifeless corpse. She dreams of those she has loved and lost, and of those whom she has resigned herself to never being able to see ever again.

Some nights she dreams of him. His voice haunts her as she flies through dark stone corridors, down endless, winding staircases. She hurries down one flight she knows will lead through to the garden, but when she gets to the bottom there is no door, only a dead end. Her terror mounts as the walls start to move. They close in around her, pressing in from all sides, and the voice gets louder. _Sing for me. Sing for your life._ She clenches her eyes shut.

When she opens them again, she is back in Alayne's bedroom.

The voice is gone now, leaving her in peace at last, but the air is thick and heavy with anticipation. She strides to the window and throws open the shutters, greedily gulping in the cool air as it hits her face. _That voice._ To hear it makes her stomach clench and her face flush. As she turns away from the window, a movement catches her eye and for a split second, her heart stops beating as the great, hulking shadow of Sandor Clegane emerges out of the darkness.

Before she can say, or even _think_,anything at all, his hands come to her shoulders and he pushes her, until she feels her back collide against stone. His arms come up to lean against the wall either side of her face, and she is sure that if her heart were to beat any faster, it would explode out of her chest. Blood pounds in her ears and her breath comes in little pants as he utters those words, the words that have haunted her every waking moment since that night.

'You promised me a song, little bird. Have you forgotten?'

_Little bird._ It's been so long since she's heard that name. To hear it now from his own burned, cruel lips, ignites a strange longing within her. _I had never thought to see him again_, she thinks. _To hear his voice. _ And yet now he stands before her, his predatory gaze pinning her to the wall.

She gasps as she catches a glimpse of steel, a small dagger that he now has in his hands, pulled as if from nowhere. He brings the knife up and, one by one, slices through the ties on the front of her bodice. The steel is cold when he presses it against her. Agonisingly slow, he runs the flat of the blade around one stiff nipple, drags the tip up her breast bone, and she feels a prick of blood blooming to the surface of her skin. He follows the scratch with his tongue, and she watches her own blood disappear into his mouth as he soothes the broken skin with a lick and a kiss.

When he stands again to his full height, he towers over her, making her feel as small as a child. 'Lift up your skirt,' he rasps. 'I want a taste of that virgin cunt.'

He has the dagger at the hollow of her throat now. If she doesn't do as he says, he'll most likely thrust it upwards into her neck. Her trembling hands twist in her silken skirts, and she knows she is wet between her thighs.

With the dagger still in his hands, he falls to his knees in front of her. She makes no struggle as he continues to hold her against the wall. _He is too strong to fight_, she tells herself, as his blade slices cleanly through her smallclothes. When he puts his mouth on her, tongue sliding across her throbbing flesh, her breath catches in her throat and she just manages to swallow a whimper.

Somewhere in the deep recess of her mind, she is utterly shocked at his actions, and even more so at her own _mind_ for conjuring them. _This is not proper,_ she tells herself. _Ladies should not think such lewd thoughts. _Sansa Stark was a true lady, she remembered, but Alayne was not, and everyone knows there is no woman half as lusty as one bastard born. His tongue laps at her; long, slow licks that make her squirm against the wall and her muscles tighten. For a moment she is torn between embarrassment and desire; she isn't quite sure which girl she is today. Then his teeth graze against a tiny nub of sensitive flesh, and she cannot help but moan.

'Shameless as a whore…' he comments from below. His hands slide over a soft patch of skin before moving to hold her hips. She lets out a shuddering sigh and her body twists, writhing against the wall. '…and squirming like a bitch in heat.' He pauses. 'I bet if I threw you on the bed right now and shoved my cock into your cunt, you wouldn't object, would you little bird?' She says nothing but her face flushes, because he's right, and she knows it.

Suddenly the room swirls. Time seems to slow down and speed up, all in the same instance. Colours grow brighter and duller, her eyesight becomes blurry and sharper in focus all at once, and she feels her insides churning. When she comes back to her senses, she knows for certain it must be a dream because he is behind her now. Strong arms swoop around her and gentle hands grip her upper arms as he kisses her neck. She cannot hear what he whispers, but his rough voice is a tender caress in her ear, and she finds that she doesn't care. All that matters is that he is here, right behind her; his solid, reassuring weight steady at her back, and she feels safe, safe, _safe_ for the first time in years. _Little bird…_

Her heart beats faster as his hands come up to palm at her breasts, both thumbs rubbing gently over her nipples until she is whimpering. _A bitch in heat, just like he said_, she muses. His breath tickles her ear, and she jolts with the sudden realisation that they haven't even kissed. They _must_ kiss; it was only proper. She cranes her neck around, her lips searching for his in the dark, but when she leans forward he moves his head away from hers, settling himself at her other shoulder to plant more kisses on her neck, and bite gently at her earlobe.

She sucks in a breath, chest simmering with a barely-suppressed growl of frustration. She doesn't know what it is that makes her ache for the touch of a man who used to terrify her, but ache she does. She squeezes her thighs together hard, burning with a heady mixture of shame and arousal when she feels the hot slickness of her own desire seep out from between her legs.

He was still mumbling away, whispering sweet nothings into her ear, she wants to believe. With her hands down at her sides, her fingers search for something to hold on to, and her heart leaps when they graze coarse wool. _His cloak._ For a moment her head spins, confusion clouding her mind. Doesn't she have his bloodied Kingsguard cloak, wrapped up safely at the bottom of her cedar chest? How can he be wearing it? Her eyes fall on that exact chest, on the opposite side of the room. Maybe he hadn't really left it with her that night. Maybe he'd taken it with him, and she'd just _imagined _having it all this time? A part of her wants to rush to the chest and throw it open, just to see it there nestled between her summer silks. Instead, she curls her fingers around the hem and pulls it across her chest, savouring the feeling of being wrapped up in the wool, safe and enclosed within, where no harm could come to her. Her mind flashes back to the day of the mob riot in Kings Landing, and her heart flutters. _He saved me. He was so brave…_

Overcome with feeling, she turns to face him. Only now he is gone, melted back into the night just like he had arrived. She opens her fingers and finds to her dismay that his cloak has disappeared too. The anguished sob that escapes her lips surprises her, a familiar feeling of loss and abandonment slowly creeping up on her like a shadow. She draws a rattling breath, and jumps when a strong hand wraps itself around her wrist with an iron grip.

It pulls her backwards towards the bed, and she falls upon the covers with an unladylike tumble. Suddenly there are hands _everywhere_, not just one but two pairs; running through her hair, pushing her open gown down her shoulders to free her arms, pulling up her skirts to caress her thighs. A rough pair of hands push her down into the feather mattress, and two great hulking shapes settle themselves either side of her body. But this time she is determined not to sit in submission. She reaches out in front of her to grab any part of him she can find; her fingers flutter over his armour, cool to the touch, and smooth over his broad shoulders. A second pair of hands come around from behind her to pinch a nipple, and she gasps sharply. He laughs, low and rasping, before bucking his hips into her backside.

The room swirls again, and her stomach flutters as their voices surround her, _overwhelm _her in the same instant.

'I can take you away from here. I can keep you safe.' He kisses her full on the mouth, deep and loving. _Such a different kiss to the one he stole that night_, she thinks. 'That bastard Littlefinger will never hurt you again, I'll see to that.'

His arms are tight around her, and his words incite a swell of warmth in her chest. But then another pair of hands reach down to stroke between her legs, and a stab of lust jolts deep in her belly.

'I'll skin him alive,' he whispers ferociously from behind her, biting into the skin of her shoulder. 'Rip him to pieces with my bare hands, serve you his head on a fucking platter, and feed the rest of him to the dogs.'

She wants to shake her head and turn him down. _No, that's not what I want._ _No more death. No more bloodshed._ She wants it more than anything. But then he thrusts his fingers deep inside of her, and she lets out a small, broken moan, and finds she can't refuse him.

When she wakes the next morning, she finds herself slick and aching, and the old blind dog is beside her once more.

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A/N: Thank you for reading, reviews are _greatly_ appreciated! :D


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